


In the right place

by MadHatter13



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Granny-as-Tyrant, Vetinari-as-witch, What-If, people in shabby black clothing meddling in other people's affairs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:39:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1921902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadHatter13/pseuds/MadHatter13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are infinite ways that the universe can lead every individual life - and due to this, there must, theoretically, be at least one universe where Havelock Vetinari and Esmeralda Weatherwax... Switched places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the case of tree theft

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I got a bee in my bonnet that told me to write Havelock Vetinari as a witch in Lancre, and Granny Weatherwax as Patrician Tyrant of Ankh-Morpork.
> 
> Well see how many drabbles I write.

_'They say there's a man who's a witch in Lancre.'_

_'...What, you mean... like a wizard?'_

_'Listen, if I meant a wizard, I would'ave said he was a bloody wizard, arright? He's just a man, right, and he's also a witch.'_

_'Heard it in the pub, did you?'_

_'Weeeell, yes, but that don't mean it ain't true. They say he can skewer you dead with just a look.'_

_'Don't sound 'alf true ta me. No-one can do that, kill someone with a look.'_

_'I never said that. I never said he killed anyone. I never said he did, okay? Just said he put them on the spot, like.'_

_'Jus'ave another pint and shut yer gob, arright?'_

 

Havelock Vetinari, witch, looked up from the open Eldrich[1] TomeTM lying on the table in front of him, and said to the two clearly uncomfortable men in front of him: 'So you say that both own that tree, then?' And waited.

The first man, Bestiality Carter [2], anxiously sought something to say, as there are few things more terrifying than someone _really_ listening to you. 'Yessir! Been in my family for generations, that apple tree's been! This lying cur an' _his_ family have been trying to steal it off'f us for almost as long!'

'You liar!' Said the other man, Gordo Smith. 'It's bin _ours_ fer ages, and youse snivelling dogsbreaths has been tryin to have it off'f  _us_!'

There was a brief scuffle, which quickly deteriorated into awkward, throat-clearing silence, because Master Vetinari, curse his eyes, was  _watching them_. Not with any clear intent, not judging. Just, watching. Very carefully, like a man cataloging every word and action so that he could bring it up later in the most uncomfortable of circumstances. Then, when their attention was solidly on him, he closed the book.[3] It shut like the gates of the future on their lives.

Then, _oh merciful Io, Om and Offler in heaven,_ he _put his_ _hands together_ and _raised an eyebrow_.

'It seems to me that this feud has been going on for far too long, and for very little reason, as I hear said tree produces apples that are either sour enough to burn or go rotten within the day. Therefore, I think you will find it benefits both of you to cut down the tree and split the wood. _Evenly_.'

He... said it like a suggestion. Like good advice that was totally up to you to take into consideration, or not.

Of course, that was as far from the facts as it was possible to get.

He beamed as the men shock hands like embarrassed little boys in the playground after being told to make up. 'I am certain it is for the best. After all, your daughter climbs that tree quite a bit, Mister Smith. We wouldn't want her to fall and hurt herself.'

And so the two men left, and decided to go to the pub together for a pint, somehow united in their crippling fear of the skinny, dusty clad man with the very precise beard who called himself a Witch.[6]

By the table in his cottage, Vetinari nodded to himself. For the best indeed. Having Esk interacting with that tree, especially when it was being inhabited by the spirit of a rather dim Wizard simply couldn't keep going on. For _her_ own good, mostly.

It wasn't even particularly cruel - the Wizard had died once already. He would hardly feel being sawed apart. Wood doesn't have much of a capacity for pain.

Havelock Vetinari gave a secret smile, certain as always that he was exactly where he should be.[9]

* * *

 

[1] Although not oblong.

[2] Who was very kind to animals.

[3] It is always handy to have a large, important looking book in front of you if you want to look ominous and important, especially if that book is in a foreign language[4]

[4] Even if that book is simply 'The 874 Uses of the Common Toadstool'.[5]

[5] Although the author can personally testify that a well-thumbed copy of 'The Big Book of Poisons' has much the same effect.

[6] Even Gordo Smith, although Master Vetinari had saved both his wife's and daughter's lives during childbirth[7]

[7] Anther thing people might object to under normal circumstances - but a male midwife[8] is pretty hard to give two pins about when something as immediate and dangerous as a new baby is happening.

[8] Midhusband?

[9] And he was. No matter where some people are born, or settle, or decide to stay, they are _always_ in the right place, simply by virtue of being _them_.


	2. Did you hear?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mister Boggis and the other Guild leaders meet the new Patrician

_Did you hear?_

_Did you hear!_

_They say the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork is a woman! An old lady, even!_

_Well, it's not that unusual, is it? It's had queens and things before._

_Yes, but a queen's different - she gets there by virtue of being born. A Patrician has to be elected. Well, mutually agreed upon by lots of important people, anyway. Anyway, would that make her 'Matrician' instead?_

_What are you on about? What a load of rubbish. An old woman as Patrician. You'll tell me there's men as midwives next!_

* * *

 

Mister Boggis' eyes roamed the table nervously, and he could feel sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. He eyed his colleague, Doctor Cruces of the Assassin's guild, who he knew as the most cool and collected man he had ever met. The good Doctor's hands were twitching as he reflexively turned his poison rings.[1]

At his other side, the Head of the Guild of Merchants, fat and jowly as was appropriate to his status, was sweating buckets.

Mrs. Palm, on the other hand, who was sitting across from him, looked suspiciously... _smug._

And at the head of the table stood... That woman. The now-Patrician (if that was even the accurate term.)

She dressed in faded black, a dress devoid of any decoration or colour, and her hair was a stark white bun pinned ruthlessly to her skull. And her mouth was in a satisfied, _very nasty,_ grin.

Beside her, another old woman with a face like an ecstatic rubber ball hid a snigger. Boggis was reasonably sure that she was drunk, but decided commenting on it in front of the Patrician would be unwise.

There had been Mad Lord Snapcase, and he was pretty bad, especially those last few years, and there had been Homicidal Lord Winder, and he was just _awful_. There had even been a little interlude by Mildly Vexed Lord Curly [2], and he'd been almost forgettable if not for his name.

And now, here out of nowhere, there was... 'I will not tolerate this'[3] Weatherwax. Esmeralda was her first name, as far as he could remember. Probably, he should try and learn it real fast. It didn't seem like she was going anywhere anytime soon.

'Now,' she said, in a voice like granite. 'I thought I should let the' and here her voice became more than a mite sarcastic, ' _major_ guild leaders of the city know that my first act of office will be to have the river cleaned up.'

There was an owlish silence. Then, Lord Rust, never the most intelligent of the lot of them neighed 'Good heavens, what for?'

Weatherwax's steel gaze swung around full-force to him. Then, after a split second, she said, 'Demons.'

'Hwhat?'

'The Wizards have reported that demonic influences - and I'm not talking the little kind that power your iconographs - a much, _much_ nastier sort - thrive in the pollution of the river. The only way to get rid of them is to clean up their food source.'

And Lord Rust, who Boggis had once seen ignore a literal elephant in the room, waffled a bit, and said, 'Well, that, well. Seems reasonable. Hyeas.'

When they all left, after a variety of other topics where the general impression was that the Patrician would do whatever she felt like no matter how they responded, Boggis overheard the dark-skinned woman with the frazzled hair and the soppy cardigan and the clipboard say 'You could have just told them what Mister Sleet and Mister Preacher[4] have been writing, about the tiny invisible backiteria.'

'Don't be silly, Magrat,' said Weatherwax brusquely, sitting down behind the desk. 'There have been four Cholera epidemics in this city in the last fifty years - we're not having another one just because some stupid aristocrats don't understand basic germ theory.'

Though in all honesty, Boggis _did_ remember something like that - an article his wife had pointed out to him in the Tanty Bugle about all the disgusting things in the river water, which had cause him to switch over the rain tank on the roof for everything but the most dire of emergencies. She didn't have to sell them quite so short, although it was much preferable to being kept in her presence for any longer than necessary.

Before he could leave, though, he was stopped by the old drunk woman from the Rats Chamber at the next doorway (and how had she managed to get there before him?)

'Got a light, mister?' She held up a pipe, and flashed a set of the most shining white teeth he had ever seen. [5]

Grudgingly, he dug a matchbox out of his pocket, and lit it, and then figured he might as well have himself a roll-up.

'Mister Boggis, of the Thieves' Guild, isn't it?' She asked.

'Tha's right.'

'Gytha Ogg, pleased to meet'cha.'

Ah. So that identified her as the matron of the fearsome Ogg clan[6], mostly local to Lobbin Clout, but whose members could be found all over the city in almost every line of work conceivable.

'Our Lenny's learnin' with you. We're right proud of him! Apprenticin' so young, and seems to have a real talent.'

Boggis brightened. 'Ah, Len Ogg? Exemplary student if there ever was one. He'll do your family proud, Mrs. Ogg, believe me.'

'So nice of you to say.' The old woman puffed her pipe. 'O'course, the Patrician doesn't much like the Guild of Thieves. And few things she doesn't like remain standing for long.'

Boggis felt the bottom drop out of his world. Well. There it was. It had been a good run - he didn't even have to go out in the field anymore. The Guild earned more than enough, and bless, his knees thanked him for it. But an unstable financial future... He could see it now, maybe sizing up the wrong mark and being kicked in the head like the old days, when he was still a greenhorn.

His old scars, and there was a lot of them, twinged.

'O'course, seems to me,' the old woman went on, 'Seems to _me_ , that we'll always have thieves anyway. If you _have_ to have them, they might as well be all official, like. Less collat'ral damage, that way.'

Mister Boggis, like a drowning man seeing something to grab onto, latched onto the proverbial straw. 'Yes!'

'With like, licenses and things. Quotas, so they don't rob everyone blind.'

'Exactly!'

'Maybe I'll see my way to mentioning it to the Patrician.' Knocking her pipe clean against the wall, Mrs. Ogg grinned hugely at him. 'Nice chattin' with you, sir. Gotta dash.' And then she was gone, as suddenly as she had appeared.

And suddenly it occurred to Boggis how easy it would be for someone with connections like that to keep tabs on... Well, pretty much everyone.

* * *

 

[1] Not something to be casually attempted if one did not wish for immediate and ghastly death.

[2] Also known as Curly the 'I'm not mad, I'm just... disappointed.'

[3] Or, 'I can't be having with this' to her friends, when her less aristocratic roots began to shine through after a long day.

[4] French trans. lit: _Pasteur._

[5] Din-chewers had been amazingly quick to spread amongst citizens of certain age after they were introduced to Cohen the Barbarian, although this particular set was made from finest porcelain and not troll diamonds.

[6] Whose origins were lost somewhere in the deep valleys of the Ramptop Moutains.


	3. Practical Karma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Witch!Vetinari and Death from any of the several Weatherwax/Death scenes. Considering Death and Vetinari have never met.
> 
> I felt I had to improvise on the prompt, since several of the witch plots depend on Granny Weatherwax being, well, Granny Weatherwax, and deciding to do something against people's (apparent) wishes out of sheer bloody-minded stubbornness. Vetinari, I think, would require a different approach.  
> So, here you have Vetinari, Death... and a couple of other unexpected guests.

The candle-flame flickered, sending shadows - well, probably shadows, twisting across the wall of the small, spartan bedroom. The young man on the bed breathed heavily, the bed he lay on barely luxurious enough for the stillest of corpses, sweat beading his forehead. Occasionally, he would mutter something.

On the equally unadorned wooden chair, a slim man with dark hair[1] turned a page in a well-read copy of 'The Habits of Highly Efficient People'[4] and shifted slightly in his chair.

From the shadows of the rafters, and voice akin to that of a long-time chain-smoking barfly said, 'Here, you sure this is going to work?'

Vetinari turned another page. 'As sure as I was 4.63 minutes ago, when you last asked me. You came to me, sir. I am assuming you did so for a reason.'

'Well, they say you're the best,' said the voice grudgingly.

'I know,' was the reply. Not smug, or gloating. Simply as a matter of fact.

The night dragged on, and late in the small hours, also known as the hour of the dead[5], the young man's breathing started to seize, his form contorting in pain. In response, there was a distressed yowl from the darkness.

Vetinari laid a hand on the young man's shoulder, and soon he stopped convulsing. The pain, a wriggly thing of silver, spun somewhere around the witch's left shoulder, angrily twisting as it tried to escape. 'We'll have none of that, I think,' he said.

'I AM AFRAID THERE IS NO CHOICE IN THE MATTER.'

The candle went out, and Vetinari became aware of a presence sitting on the other chair across the table.

'That was rather melodramatic of you,' he commented, closing the book carefully and putting it down.

'PERKS OF THE JOB, I'M SURE YOU'LL UNDERSTAND.'

'Quite.'

'IF YOU ARE HERE TO BARGAIN FOR THE BOY'S LIFE, THAT IS NOT AN OPTION.'

'Oh, no, no. I am only contacting you on behalf of an associate.'

The voice in the darkness said, 'You don't half know how to pick them, Mister Death.' And there was a small meow as Maurice, sometimes known as The Amazing, jumped down from the rafters and to the table.'

Death, eye-sockets twinkling, tilted his head. 'ANOTHER FRIEND OF YOURS, MAURICE? AND I AM SURE YOU KNOW THAT I DO NOT 'PICK THEM.''

'What'dya mean, 'another'?' The cat's scarred nose wrinkled, and his stub of a tail twitched nervously.

'NATURALLY, YOU DO NOT REMEMBER.' Death leaned his skull onto the bones of his hand. 'YOU WISH TO NEGOTIATE WITH ME, MAURICE?'

'His town needs 'im,' the cat said gruffly. 'I've got more lives than I know what to do with, so he can have some of mine.'

'YOU ARE QUITE INCORRECT, MAURICE. AS OF MY MOST RECENT COUNT, YOU ONLY HAVE ONE.'

The cat's expression, such as there was of it, wobbled, but his resolve did not. 'As I said.'

There was a silence in the darkness. Then Death replied, 'AS YOU WISH, MAURICE. IF THAT TRULY IS YOUR WISH. I WILL GRANT IT.'

And Keith's breathing eased as he lay on the bed, and under his breath Maurice muttered, 'Stupid kid.'

As they both turned to go, Vetinari said, 'Before you leave, I was wondering if you would play a little game with me.' His expression stayed guileless as Death's gaze scrutinized its every feature.

'A TRICK OF SOME SORT?'

'Not a trick, no... Just a game. I assume that you are familiar with Thud! ?'

Death sat down again as Vetinari pulled a small box from under the table and folded it into a slab - miniature armies of dwarfs and trolls adorned their respective starting points, the trolls seeming unfairly few in number compared to the agile dwarfs.

'I ALWAYS FORGET THE RULES - IT'S TWO GAMES, IS IT NOT?'

The witch did not smile in triumph over an obviously inferior opponent. 'Indeed.'

The game carried on into the night, Maurice sitting by looking baffled, both at the game, and whatever it's ultimate purpose was in this particular instance.

Eventually, in the gray light of dawn, the second game came to an end, the trolls quite clearly winners this turn around.

Death looked across the board, and at the ball of pain turning gently, occasionally giving off sparks over his opponent's shoulder. 'AND WHAT WOULD A DRAW INDICATE IN THIS INSTANCE?'

'Generally,' said Vetinari carefully, 'It is considered a state of equilibrium. You receive something, yes - but you must also give something away in return.'

Death was silent.

The orb of pain kept calmly spinning.

'I BELIEVE YOU ARE CORRECT.' The nebulae eyes twinkled. 'ALWAYS GOOD DOING BUSINESS WITH YOU.'

And then he was gone.

Maurice blinked. He looked down at himself, and found that he was still alive, and not any worse off than he had been a few hours before. 'What just happened?'

Leaning forward to check the temperature of the sleeping man, then standing up, bones clicking, Vetinari replied 'Equivalent exchange. Now, if you don't mind...'

He strode from the room, grabbing a poker from the fireplace. As soon as walked out of the house, he stuck it in the water barrel right next to the door.

The pain flowed through his arm, and the water flash-boiled into steam in the glimpse of an eye.

Peaking through his paws from his place curled up on the ground, Maurice stared at the dark figure through the artificial mist.

'I suppose I do believe that you get returned that which you put into the world,' said Vetinari, leaning the poker against the barrel as the steam swirled around him in the morning frost. 'But only if you constantly remind the universe that it does, in fact, owe you.'

* * *

 

[1] And people swore it had to be dyed[2], because how could he keep it from going gray at his age[.3]

[2] Although never to his face.

[3] Even though none of them were actually sure what that age _was_.

[4] He did not trust anyone that would write a book bearing such a title, but it made for an excellent spotter's guide for finding those who did.

[5] Generally between 3 and 4 AM, which has been observed as the period of time in which most people die in hospitals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maurice?! And the stupid kid - I mean, Keith?! What are they doing all the way up in Lancre? Well, I suppose you'll go a long way in the hope of curing a friend. Don't ask me how they got there with Keith unconscious and Maurice only being a cat.  
> What was Keith dying of? Probably the Gnats for all I know. Or tuberculosis. Or something.  
> I think I'll do one either with Lilith and Esme next, or Madame and Vetinari.


	4. Plaster in the wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: 'Okay, for the AU! (or the vine lol), Does Vimes punch the wall as much under a Matrician?'

It was Tuesday, and the screaming could be heard echoing off the walls of the Patrician’s Palace for the radius of almost half a mile.

This was not due to, as you might expect under Homicidal Lord Winder, for example, extensive torturing taking place in the dungeons[1], or, as under Mad Lord Snapcase, the tyrant engaging in some of their more unusual and salacious hobbies.

No, because the current Tyrant was Patrician Weatherwax, and today was Tuesday, and that was the day the Commander of the Watch generally made his report.

Magrat winced as the yelling grew louder, and removed her glasses to rub the bridge of her nose[3] and said to Nanny, who was as always smoking her pipe, ‘Do you think we should maybe do something so they don’t have to meet so often? I don’t think this can be good for their blood pressure.’

'Wouldn't dream of it!' Said Nanny brightly. 'I've never seen Esme as happy as when she's this furious, and the same to Mister Vimes[6].'

'Well, I can't say it's doing _my_ eardrums much good.’ Magrat looked up when the shouting suddenly stopped. Then there was the sound of a door opening and closing quite normally, then the sound of someone muttering under his breath, and the smell of foul cigars. Then Commander Vimes rounded the corner, noticed them, and nodded his greetings, and left the Palace with something of a spring in his step.

'See?' Said Nanny. 'Happy as a cat full of sixpences, he is.'

In this universe, Sam Vimes never had to punch the wall outside the Oblong Office[8] - he and the Patrician were much too similar to do anything but have a blazing row whenever the opportunity presented itself. It made a wonderful workout.

* * *

 

[1] In fact, when first being shown the dungeons, the new tyrant had looked around disapprovingly and instructed for someone to clean the place up and maybe extend the kitchens or something. Esme Weatherwax could not continue to be Esme Weatherwax while condoning the torture of people, no matter how inconvenient they were.[2]

[2] Besides, it was _much_ more fun to let them go and watch them dissolve into frantic paranoia as they expected retribution and punishment around every corner. You don’t have to break people with hammers if you can make them install said hammers in their own minds.

[3] She’d had them since she was around twelve,[4] when it became apparent that her horrible taste in clothing had partly to do with her not actually being able to see what she was wearing. But only partly.

[4] And her mother had only been able to afford them because Granny[5] had tagged along and wandered around picking up delicate glassware and loudly asking what it was for and whether it broke easily.

[5] Who was then just a general neighborhood busybody and a person people had together decided must to be Important, because how else could she have radiated confidence on the Megawatt scale?

[6] She had earned the right to call him that after safely delivering his son a couple of years back[7] - being the best midwife on the entire Discworld had its perks.

[7] As this universe’s version of Doctor John ‘Mossy’ Lawn was otherwise occupied, on account of being born somewhere around Bad Ass in the Ramptops.

[8] Which caused in Thomas Thursley, Master Plasterer at 45th Street of Cunning Artificers, a small pang of happiness whenever it failed to happen, although he never found out why.


	5. Steady as a rock

_No matter the constant diverging of the Trousers of Time, no matter the number of alternate histories, some things are simply constants. This has very little to do with the will or gods, or fate,[1] and everything to do with people being people. Married, unmarried, witch, witch-haunter or tyrant, contemporary, ancient, dead or alive, there is, for example, no universe where Esme Weatherwax's best friend is_ not _Gytha Ogg. No matter the distance between them geographically, socially or economically, they always seem to come together. It's just one of these things._

_A slightly less nice universal constant:_

_There is also no universe where Esme Weatherwax does not fall out with her sister Lily._

_Degrees may vary, of course, as does which one of them defeats the other, however hollow such a victory might be, or which one of them is the 'good' one._

_You have seen what Lilith could do with an absent moral compass._

_You do not even want to imagine Esmeralda._

* * *

Warbanners were on the horizon,[2] and the people of Ankh-Morpork were howling for the blood of Genua [3] and in her office, the incumbent Patrician was fuming. Her secretary, who was well-versed in the many tempers of Mt. Weatherwax, waited quietly for the impending eruption.

'The nerve. The _nerve_ , Gytha. She dares declare war on _my city_. In the name of,' and she spat out the word, ' _Conquest._ Of making another, another _empire_ out of Genua.'

Magrat reflected that, where most people needed curses and swearwords to make their fury known, Granny[4] simply had to use _inflections_.

Nanny, who was drinking brandy from a tall glass[5] next to the drinks cabinet [6] said, 'Well, it's your average family dispute, isn't it. You don't get on with someone, but can't get rid of them, more's the pity, 'cause they're family. Only difference is, the two of _you_ both have your own cities to run.'

'I never should have let her leave for Genua in the first place,' said Granny darkly. 'I swear she became Queen just to spite me.'

'What will you do?' Asked Magrat.

Granny's lined face was as grim as ten acres' worth of graveyards. 'There will not be a war. I will not have it.'

'That'll be tricky,' said Nanny nonchalantly. 'Since the guild heads and the nobs are all for it, and so's your sister.'

'Not all of them,' said Magrat. 'The Commander[7] wasn't impressed with all that Leshp business, and I don't think he'll be with this, either. Nor will the Duchess.'

'Not just them.' And here Esme Weatherwax smiled, in a way that was no at all pleasant. 'I think it's time for our friend Rosie to take a little holiday.'

* * *

 

'You were right,' said Mrs. Palm a couple of weeks later, sitting down on the chair in front of the Patrician's desk. 'The people of Genua don't want a war. They would probably be all for it under normal circumstances, but the most recent ruler is far from popular.'

'Big on torture, is she?' Asked Nanny, who people sometimes wondered whether lived in the Oblong Office, or if she actually worked there in some mysterious capacity.

'That wouldn't be nearly as much of a problem,' said Rosie. 'No, she's 'cleaning up' the city, which to her translates as getting rid of any undesirables who don't fit into her nice little boxes.' She sniffed. 'The cobbles were clean enough to eat your food off'f. It's not natural, I tell you. _And_ she's made all the Steamstresses leave!'

'We'll see about that,' said the Patrician. 'How did it go with the General of the army?'

'Oh, he was wonderful company, and so was his wife.'

In her seat, Nanny Ogg cackled. The Patrician was utterly stone-faced.

'Hmph. And did they say anything?'

Rosemary shrugged. 'Only that the army will be on the march in a couple of weeks and should arrive about a month after that.'

'Hm.' The Patrician looked up, and then down at her paperwork[9] again.

'Well,' Rosie prompted. 'What are you going to do.'

And the Patrician grinned, grimly.

'Nothing.'

* * *

 

Beneath the soldiers' feet, the earth trembled as they walked across the cabbage fields[11], and birds went mad and flew away in the occasional tree or bush as they passed.

They were confused, which is not a good mood for soldiers to be in if you want them to stay effective. In each town, they had been met warmly by the locals, and so were instructed by the General to only do a bit of light looting on the side, since robbing your potential allies is generally frowned upon.

Those paying attention noticed that the Queen was bemused as well, only in her, it came out as anger.

'Is she mocking me?' She asked asked the General in the war-room[12]. Her teeth were not gritted, and her voice was quite pleasant, but nevertheless he felt just about ready to crawl into his boots. He looked imploringly at his wife, adviser and diplomatic attache to the Queen, and she relented, although her expression said, ' _We will have words about this later.'_

'I am sure that it is some kind of diversion, your majesty,' she said. 'It is well known that Ankh-Morpork has extensive and long-standing non-aggression pacts with every city on the plains on the basis of mercantile treaties.'

'It better be,' was all the Queen said.

* * *

 

They were met by a single solitary figure standing before the open city gates.

No soldiers to greet them, nor war-machines or archers on the roofs, and with nothing to oppose them, the marching invaders slowed down to a general shuffling of feet and questioning glances.

The Queen, heedless of a potential ambush, stormed from her carriage and to the waiting woman, and many of those watching were suddenly struck by how similar they looked - but one clad in sparkling white, the other in shabby black.

'What do you think this is?' Fumed Lilith as she reached her sister. 'Some kind of game?!'

'As a matter of fact, I know that's exactly what this is, to you at least. _You're_ just mad I'm not playing by your rules.'

And, taking no heed of the fuming woman with a crown of sparkling diamonds, she addressed the army. 'We welcome you to Ankh-Morpork! Please, have your wallets handy before entering the city, as it saves time when paying for your selected items.'

There went a murmuring through the crowd, and the General and his wife sent each other puzzled looks. The Queen, however, was practically on fire. ' _WHAT?'_

An elderly woman smoking a pipe detached herself from the wall and sauntered over. 'Ankh-Morpork doesn't have an army,' she said. 'Sure, there's militias, but they're never much good on account of not being trained, so we thought, if you can't beat them, join them.'

'It doesn't matter what you think!' Screamed Lilith. 'We'll raze this city to the ground, and the people with it!'

'That's a pity,' said the Patrician. 'Seeing as Genua sells us about...' she looked at a piece of paper a woman with frizzled hair had just handed her, '30% of its current export. That'll leave a pretty big hole in the market - not sure how you'll fix that. And if you burn us down, we won't have any time to discuss those new, very lucrative trade agreements we have just been talking through with the Guild of Merchants.'

Lilith opened her mouth to scream again, but was interrupted by the adviser, who had just arrived along with her husband to the scene. 'What trade agreements?'

'If you'll just come this way I'm sure my friend Gytha can tell you all about it...'

Less than an hour later, a feast had been set up for the soldiers and the citizens just outside the city walls, and they were very pleased with that, since no-one wants to live off cabbage any longer than they must. And there was the Queen, still fuming, but like a child who has had their sweets taken away and is giving everyone second-hand embarrassment from screaming and stomping her feet. Somehow, no-one paid any attention to her orders, not even the General or the adviser, who were busy negotiating over dinner[13] anyway.

And if she was very quietly and with a minimum amount of fuss deposed only a week after the return to Genua, no-one wanted to talk about it much. She had been, it was generally agreed, something of a political embarrassment.

Later, Nanny Ogg sat down in her armchair and lit her pipe in the Oblong Office, paying no heed when her best friend for most of her life pointedly sneezed at the smoke, and said, 'We were bloody lucky that it worked, though.'

'It was obvious,' said the Patrician airily. 'It was an offer they couldn't refuse, really.'

Nanny hummed. 'So the fact that you evacuated most of the city and had almost all supplies hidden away before hand was..?'

'I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,' her friend replied primly.

And Nanny Ogg sat back in her chair, satisfied that tyrant or not, Esme Weatherwax would not endanger (mostly) innocent people for no good reason.

* * *

[1] Not even the Discworld's very own local Fate, although he is liable to hog all the credit, should you ask.

[2] Well, metaphorical ones, anyway. Genua was a _long_ way away, after all.

[3] Or at least nudging each other and going, 'Someone ought to show Johnny foreigner a thing or two, what with them getting all up in our space, don't you think,' which is often much more dangerous.

[4] And she still called her that; it was hard to break the habit of a life-time. In fact she suspected Granny to secretly like it, although of course she'd never say it to her face.

[5] In her opinion, there were no specific kinds of drinking utensils for specific drinks - one large size fits all.

[6] Which had mysteriously appeared in the office mere days after Granny was declared Tyrant.

[7] Who even in this reality had managed to become duke.[8]

[8] Due to Gytha Ogg being present at his wedding and absolutely relishing the look on his face when he realized this technically made him an aristocrat - she had since made it one of her favourite hobbies to recommend him to the Patrician for any promotion possible.

[9] Which was what made Magrat such a treasure in the Palace, the Patrician's[10] approach to paperwork being erratic and imprecise at best, and totally absent at worst.

[10] Although the correct term might possibly be 'Matrician' it was hard for the people of Ankh-Morpork to change their minds once they got a new idea between their teeth, and the term had stuck.

[11] Which had, thankfully, just been harvested and thus were experiencing a light ploughing and fertilizing by the same passing soldiers and their horses.

[12] Actually tent.

[13] And sharing blushing but quite pleased glances with a certain Rosemary Palm, who was sitting just a few chairs down the table, and enjoying herself immensely.


	6. The 'Grow-Your-Own-Witch' kit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of Havelock Vetinari, witch.

Although the Vetinari's weren't quite strangers in Lancre, neither did they really belong. Mister Vetinari, librarian at Lancre Castle under King Verence the I was a quite, precise man and his wife a quiet, hard-working woman.  They had arrived several years prior, reportedly from Twoshirts[1] with very little fuss, and a year later, with only a slightly more amount of fuss, had birthed a son.

That was the first that the denizens of the little kingdom saw of Madam Meserole[2], half-sister to Mister Vetinari from over in Pseudopolis, an accomplished witch and midwife.

Indeed, it was also the first they heard of her, so to speak - it is generally expected for the mother to be the one to curse the roof off'f the house during childbirth, not the midwife[3].

After that, she would sometimes visit as the boy grew older, equally quiet as his parents but more... Purposeful. As if he was watching to se how the world worked, and was content to go unnoticed until he had it all figured out.

Then, the house burned down, and the boy was the only one left, and Madame Meserole came to take care of him. They saw a lot more of her after that. [4]

* * *

 

And young Havelock did indeed take to things that interested him like a fish to water. There was, for example, a whole week where he lurked around the village dressed in green, brown and grey clothing and facepaint, and very nearly giving Old Thatcher the Butcher a heart attack. He must have stopped after that, the villagers reasoned, because they never saw him do it again.

'Ingenious,' said Madam, looking over the clothes that he had carefully dyed himself. 'How did it occur to you?'

'I watched the animals in the forest, and how their fur and feathers help them to hide from us and each other,' said he fourteen-year old boy[6], book already in hand although he had come through the door mere three minutes ago. He still had to clean the paint off his face, and even inside it seemed to melt into his surroundings.

'Whatever will you think of next?' Said Madam Meserole, and it was quite a heavy question.

* * *

 

Several months later, plague struck - a small, localized thing of no interest to the outside world but did, however, leave the tiny country of Lancre in a slump. As most of the adults were bedridden, children were left to fend for themselves and each other. Havelock spent most of his time organizing them into making sure the crops didn't die in the fields, haunting for food so they would not die of starvation, and running errands for his aunt, who worked constantly from sunup to sundown to make sure that too many people wouldn't die.

When the epidemic broke, he sat down across the table from her in their tiny kitchen-slash-mainroom and said, 'Madam, I wish to learn from you.'

'I rather suspected you would say that, dearest. But will you tell me your reasoning?'

'There aren't enough witches in Lancre,' he said. 'One day you will be gone, and they will need someone to take care of them.'

She laughed. 'Ruthlessly logical! I like it. Alright, I'll teach you. But it won't be easy. People don't like change and you're older than an apprentice usually is, although I suspect you've been picking up things behind my back non the less.

He merely inclined his head, and she sighed. 'And I might be retiring sooner than I previously thought. There's only so much you can give off yourself until there's nothing left of you.'

Then both of them fall asleep at the table, only waking up an hour later to drag themselves to bed, where they sleep for two days straight.

* * *

 

_She's trainin' 'im, she says. To be a witch._

_What? But he's a boy! Are you sure she didn't mean 'wizard'?_

_How's she supposed to train a wizard when_ she _isn't one? Anyway, it'll never last, mark my words. A man as a witch? Hah!_

_Yeah... right._

* * *

Three year later, Madam leaves for Genua, or Quirm, or Pseudopolis, or Ankh-Morpork, or somewhere, and the people of Lancre are suddenly forced to accept what they had previously worked hard to dismiss -

\- and anyway it's very hard to have the time to get offended at the gender of your local witch when there isn't another one who can spare the time for miles, and people are dropping axes on their foot, or coming down with a case of the Gnats, and the dead need laying out and babies need delivering.

* * *

 

Over time, more witches arrive in Lancre, such as Miss Sally Cambric[8], an excellent research witch, followed by, when the Ankh-Morpork social revolution reached the Copperhead Mines, Minty Rocksmacker[9], who was even better at herbs than she was at running the Lancre smithy.

Even though there was only such a thing as a 'coven' to prevent cackling and spread the workload, they were far from what you would call average one.[10] But then again, they were not your average witches either.

* * *

 

[1] A fact which immediately answered those who asked why they had moved.

[2] Normally a witch would be referred to by her marital status or as 'mistress' but they were a bit odd down on the low-land

[3] Wagging tongues had, until silenced by pleasant smiles carved out of rock from the lady herself, commented that the boy had very little resemblance to his mother, and much more to his, ehem, father's side of the family, and hadn't Madam Meserole been a bit rounder around the middle when she arrived than when she left?

[4] And it really _was_ an accident - but people can still be so cruel, especially to children.[5]

[5] Which had resulted in one memorable incident where Madam had to detach little Havelock's teeth from a hollering Covetousness' Carter's left arm. But only after letting him get a decent grip on him first.

[6] Madam vaguely felt that it was expected of children to become utterly unmanageable and think about nothing but the opposite (or occasionally the same) gender, but it never came up, which she counted her lucky stars for.[7]

[7] Nor did he ever walk out with anyone, telling those brave enough to ask that he had too much on his plate, and anyway, books were much more interesting.

[8] Better known as Long Tall Short Fat Sally, who found that her condition of Tides was less aggravating when further away from the ocean.

[9] One-time paramour to Captain Carrot, now of the City Watch.

[10] Even with the guaranteed strangeness of your run-of-the-mill witch.

____________

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand done. Sorry for not including any of the suggestions for who to add to Vetinari's coven, but almost all (all?) were male, and I have a feeling that, being Vetinari, he would be something of a one of a kind, at least for the time being.
> 
> Stay tuned for a direct sequel featuring jaded reasearch witches who walk into the tops of door frames a lot, and badass lady dwarf witches who carry axes taller then they are when out for a walk in the woods.


	7. Poor Unlucky Charlie

_'When shall we three meet again?!'_ Hissed a voice like the scratching of nails across chalkboard.

A slightly more tempered voice replied in a bewildered tone, ‘Uh. Wednesday?’ And then continued reproachfully, ‘What did you have to shriek like that for, Sally? We’re sitting right here, you know.’

'It's a reference to the work of the playwright Hwel,' said a calm and measured voice, considerably deeper on the bass-scale than the other two. 'It's what people like to expect of us.'

'Just trying to get into the spirit of the thing,' said the first voice at a lower, more defeated volume. It sounded like it spoke in that tone of voice a lot. 'You know, trying to be _proper_ witches and all.’

'Oh, for Tak's sake, Sally! You well know there's no such thing as a proper witch! You do the job that's in front of you, and that's all it takes. The rest is just -' the voice sniffed. ' _Decoration.’_

'And we don't even wear the hats,' the voice continued, dourly.

'That's cause yours just keeps getting knocked off when the tides come in so there's no point, I would be suicidal to wear one in the smithy… and anyway it makes me look like a damned delver, and, well, it just doesn't suit _him_.’

'Thank you, Minty,' said the careful voice, which belonged to a thin, angular man that seemed like he would be more at home in a large, clean room somewhere, pinning insects to cardboard rather than here, by a small but warm fire in a forest clearing, away from the wind.

'And the Trials are in just a couple of weeks,' continued Sally, determined to wring as much misery out of the night as possible.

Minty Rocksmacker - who was a dwarf and therefore by nature practical and tended to also be optimistic, at least when confronted with something other than mining and/or hammering of hot metal[1] - just shrugged. ‘And so they were last year, and the year before that, and so on and so on. Why’s this year any different?’

'It's just the looks they tend to give us. Like, they'll accept us, on account of us being witches. But if they could get away with it, they'd rather we just buggered off to somewhere else.'

Minty stroked her beard[2], and privately thought that her sister witch got a bit too much out of thinking of herself as an outcast, since the witches on the mountain tended to be hardworking people who were just glad that there were enough of them these days that no-one had to sleep on their broomstick too much. Sure, there were a few bad apples, but humans were like that.[4]

She glanced at Vetinari, who had not said much during the weekly meeting, although he seldom said did unless there was some point to it. ‘What do you think?’ She asked.

He looked into the mug of tea he was holding, then downed the rest of it. ‘I think next Wednesday should do just fine.’

* * *

 

The witch trials were , as always, packed. No witch would fail to show up. It would be like failing to attend to a colleague’s funeral party - you would miss your chance to say a last goodbye[5] and also there was free food. No witch worth her pointy hat would scorn the possibility of free food.

The comparison might lack a little something, though. At least, it was generally hoped[6] that the event wouldn’t end with a dug hole out back and a corpse.

The Lancre Village coven entered the fairgrounds, and although it was to a lesser degree than amongst those not of a magical persuasion, immediately drew some attention. Sally was, for once, at least at normal height, _and_ wearing a pointy hat, but there was the somberly dressed Minty, although she was wearing mostly chainmail and leather[7] and, of course, Vetinari, who was an anomaly simply by the virtue of being a man, but mostly by being Vetinari. _But none of us can help how we were made, after all_ , those attending the trials shrugged, and eventually went on with their business.[8]

They each went their own separate ways - Sally to talk to fellow research witch Miss Level[9] and Minty to set up the stall where she sold broomsticks[10].

Vetinari, on the other hand, just found a quiet spot on a log somewhere, and opened the small box that contained his Thud! board, and carefully arranged it by his side, occasionally moving the pieces as if he were playing against himself.

When he had sat there for a small while, a ghastly voice in his ear exclaimed, ‘Lost your marbles, have you dearie?’

'Miss Treason,' he simply replied, not turning around. 'If you are referring to the game -'

'Oh, yes,' said the voice, and a figure out of a nightmare[12] 'That and a measure of balance. No witch can stay quite so solitary and not go a bit odd.' She sat down with some effort on the log next to him, and her eyes[13] narrowed at the octagonal playing board.

'I seem to manage,' he replied. 'Will you join me in a game?'

'Never could get the hang of it. Prefer poker meself.' She frowned, and stared unseeing at his face. 'Been walking through the the valley of the shadow of Death, have you? That wears a person out something awful, you know.'

'It has its perks, such as an interesting opponent.' He gestured to the board. 'I even lose occasionally.'

Miss Treason laughed. ‘You’ll drag all kinds of attention, pulling stunts like that, young Vetinari.’ He said nothing; even when you’ve reached your fifties, you are still going to be regarded as a teenager by those still in their low hundreds.

'Indeed,' she continued. 'You already have. Although it's not really the dangerous kind.'

'If you're referring to that young woman over there wearing what might be described as an avalanche of black lace, I had noticed her, you know.'

'That's Lucy Tockley, that is. Calls herself 'Diamanda'[14].' Miss Treason snorted. 'Got herself apprenticed to Miss Earwig - well, it'll be Mrs. in a few months - and has all kinds or stupid ideas about what witches should and shouldn't do. Probably she'll try some of it out on you later - she's got a mouth on her like nobody's business.'

'I'm sure that will be an interesting… Discussion.'

* * *

 

And indeed, she did approach about an hour later, and without even bothering with introductions went, ‘You’re Vetinari from over Lancre way, aren’t you? Call yourself a witch, do you?’

'I do.' He did not look up from the Thud! slab, and moved another dwarf piece all the way across the board.

'Well, I don't think you are!' She said triumphantly. 'Everyone knows men can't be witches and women can't be wizards, it stands to reason!'

'If you say so,' he replied, 'Although I am well acquainted with a young woman who is studying to be a wizard at the Unseen University.'

'Men don't have the temper for it,' she went on, ignoring him.

'True.' He nodded. 'We're famously impatient and unable to concentrate on the task in front of us for more than 3.13 minutes.'

She looked livid. ‘What? What are you talking about?’

'I was simply agreeing with you.' Now, a peripheral crowd had started to gather - certainly not listening, no, but not, it seemed, getting on with their work either.

'Well, if you say yourself that men can't be witches, then obviously you aren't one!'

'Oh, I never said that. Generally, should I say that something applies to other people, I don't include myself.' He moved a troll piece horizontally, so that it could lurk in wait behind the central rock.

'I don't believe you! If you say you're a witch, you should prove it!'

He contemplated this for a moment. ‘Hm, no.’

_'What?'_

'It sounds completely redundant. I'd rather not.'

'Then I win!'

'If you say so.'

'You can't say that! You can't say that!' Her face contorted in anger at not having to fight tooth an nail to get her own way, and she said, 'I challenge you!'

'Good grief, what for?' He moved another piece on the board, and she lashed out with her hand to knock it over.

Immediately, his hand was on hers, and she found that she could not move. In the same tone of voice he had used for their entire conversation he said, ‘I believe you are about to rethink what you were going to do just now. It is terribly rude to interrupt people like this. Don’t you agree?’

And she found herself mumbling an apology, and drawing back her hand once he let it go. Then he stood up, and she realized he was really quite, _quite_ tall.

Nevertheless, she was about as easy to derail as an armored train, and quickly rallied. ‘The ring, now! Whoever rips Unlucky Charlie to shreds first wins!’

He sighed. ‘If you insist.’ And the crowd, which was rather more intelligent than the average crowd, followed them, certain that today’s entertainment would be good value for no money.

Reaching the ring where Unlucky Charlie, the scarecrow that was the receptor of any magic a which wished to demonstrate at the trials, Diamanda struck a pose[15], and then gestured to the scarecrow, which immediately caught fire.

'Very impressive,' Vetinari observed politely.

Scowling, she gestured again with both hands, which at one point seemed to pass through each other, and the fire _roared_ , and exploded as to fill the ring and turn the cords encircling it to ash, and people screamed and children who had come closer to look began to cry as the heat reached them -

\- and then the fire suddenly contracted down to nothing, so that all that was left was the white-hot glowing outline of the scarecrow. Diamanda looked confused, and everyone looked at the equally scarecrowish man at the other side of the ring, who had not moved a muscle.

'That's quite enough of that,' he said, hands folded behind his back. 'You think being a witch involves endangering innocent bystanders, do you?' He tilted his head. 'Hm. You think it's about power, which is really the last thing it is.'

Inside the ring, the glowing scarcrow cooled so fast as to leave a vacuum in the air, and fell to the ground, a frozen block of ash.

'It's really about… Control.' And on the ground, the ash cooled to normal temperature, and disintegrated into dust, leaving a tidy little pile of destruction in the very circle of the ring.

And they bystanders nodded to each other, and dispersed, Lucy Tockley was left baffled by what had happened. And Vetinari went back to the playing board. No need to cause a fuss.

* * *

 

[1] Optimism being very pointless and very deadly when your job takes you underneath several thousand tons of rock every day.

[2] Getting the citizens to Lancre to accept someone who wore trousers[3] and had a beard longer than granddad as a ‘Miss’ had been difficult, but they soon found out that intentionally misgendering someone who carried an ancestral axe taller than she was was considered, in the words of Wen the Eternally Surprised, ‘A bloody stupid move.’

[3] Skirts being another inadvisable item of clothing when working around hot metal and flames.

[4] And so were dwarfs, she thought, remembering the sneers and looks when first she had, the only one in her mine, announced herself as female, and then the second time, when she said she was leaving to become a witch. People, human or not, tend not to like those who represent change.

[5] Literally for most witches, as demonstrated by another reality’s Miss Treason - witches were practical like that, and if you could attend your own funeral, well, you’d die of embarrassment if you missed that chance, wouldn’t you?

[6] If only because witches prefer to defeat their enemies to their face rather then kill them.

[7] In black, as generally expected off witches, but with the addition of a few feminine touches along the way, such as finally allowing herself a skirt, since she was doing no blacksmithing for the day.

[8] Of course, they still gossiped like there was no tomorrow, but they were _witches_. A witch who could not gossip was a witch without a pulse.

[9] Both of her.

[10] Which she made herself - they were more affordable than the average stick at your normal dwarf workshop, but no dwarf is going to just give away anything they make without pay - even quite rebellious emancipated ones.[11]

[11] She also repaired them for other people, since witches are not famous for having much money between their hands, and like paying for things even less than dwarfs like to give things away.

[12] That is, if your nightmare involved a rather tastelessly dressed blind old woman with two ravens perching on her shoulders, which, granted, was quite horrifying in its own right, especially if she poked you with her walking stick.

[13] Well, the ravens’ eyes.

[14] Who had in this reality failed to summon the Queen of Fairies, but succeeded in continuing to be a massive pain in the wossname.

[15] Which she thought made her look dramatic but bystanders thought just made her look like a bit of a tit, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure Vetinari will have to face more dangerous opponents than close-minded apprentice witches, once I can be bothered to think up something. In the meantime; the patriarchy (although there are few places more matriarchal on the Disc than Lancre) is a bugger to all of us, but will have to go home with its nose in a sling if it goes up against a witch, no matter the witch's gender.


	8. Stab two, poison one free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An answer to the prompt: 'How would Tyrant Weatherwax deal with an attempted assassination?'

Thermopoli Gaiter[1] skulked, in the best tradition of capital A Assassins through the centuries, through the dark hallways of the Patrician’s Palace[2] and seethed, smugly.

It was only a matter of time, of course - a very short time, as it turned out. The influential people of the city couldn’t stand putting up with a ruler that didn’t care what toes she stepped on, or who, gods forbid, actually _changed things_.

Granted, the emergency clean-up of the river while they waited for the engineers and clever-clogs down the Street of Cunning Artificers meant that there was already a palpable improvement to the smell.[3] Not to mention the sudden lack of plagues. But that kind of thing had mainly been the problem of the poorer classes, and so the aristocracy was not particularly bothered.[4]

But the current state of affairs could not be allowed to continue. As another Tyrant in another leg of the Trousers of Time had once observed, what most people wanted was to be left alone, and for today to be almost identical to tomorrow and to yesterday.[6] This was especially the case for those who possessed a lot of money, and quite a lot of them had chipped in to make certain that the Patrician became… Otherwise occupied.

Thermopoli had been the top of his class in Viper House - he had no concerns about the efforts involved in inhuming an old woman.[7]

He probably should have asked himself how an old woman managed to become Tyrant in the first place. Things might have gone a lot different for him, then.

* * *

 

His first try was made difficult when he decided the best way into the main building would be through the kitchens. All he’d have to do was poison whatever food would be heading for the ruler of the city and then sit back and enjoy the outcome.

He did not expect to find a sole old lady pottering around the cavernous kitchen, so big that it could house dozens of cooks preparing a feast for hundreds of people, messing around[8] with a pan on the stove. Occasionally, she nipped over to the drinks cabinet and either poured whatever it contained on said pan or just straight-up drank it.

Oh, well, she wouldn’t be hard to sedate or overpower - besides, he could just wait until she left the room and go over and poison whatever was being made.

And that was indeed what he did - when the constantly leering woman with the cloud of white curls wandered off, he stalked over to the bubbling pan - the contents of which seemed to be mostly apples but might possibly strip paint, from the smell. And so he dumped in the liquid inside the tiny vial sown into the lining of his jacket.[9]

The contents of the pan promptly exploded.

When he came to, and had managed to put out the fire in his eyebrows, he was met by the sight of the old woman leaning companionably on the stove, occasionally stirring the deadly mixture inside the pan. ‘You know, sonny, you should really check what you’ve got before you try to spice anything up - you might ruin the taste.’

She brought the ladle to her mouth, and tasted the liquid with much smacking of lips and humming. Thermopoli watched in mesmerized horror, as the flesh of her skull should have started dissolving right about now, and she snorted. ‘I don’t know what you put in this, m’boy, but this is Scumble! Nothing you put in it can make it worse than it already is.’ She titled her head. ”S a matter of fact, I recon you’ve improved the flavour. Now get lost.’

And he did, and did not answer any of his colleagues when they inquired about the job, raising sardonic eyebrows at his still smoking clothes.

* * *

 

The second time, he entered through the gardens, by the beehives, and was about to knock out the old man sitting by the shack next to the entrance, when he was instantly surrounded by a cloud of yellow-black stinging pain. He was off commission for several weeks while they got rid of his tendency to scream whenever he saw anything striped.

In his rickety rocking chair, Mister Brooks puffed his pipe, and cackled.

* * *

 

The third time, he didn’t even bother approaching the palace, but planned to intercept the Patrician’s secretary on her way home from work. She could give him any information he might need regarding how to put down her boss - and if she didn’t comply, well. Guild rules or not, he knew a fair number of techniques to make her speak.[11]

It looked like it might rain - which bode excellently for him. Any werewolves the Watch might or might not possess would be near useless in tracking him down in such weather, if they dared deal with the Guild[12].

Anyway, the secretary (Magrat Garlick, and for gods’ sake, what kind of a name was that?) was notoriously a shrinking violet. She’d pose as much trouble as a teacup-sized rabbit.

Or so he thought, right up until he stepped out of the alley behind her and grabbed her arm - and the pointy end of the umbrella shanked straight through his foot and through the sole below.

Nobody who has had any truck with actual rabbits dares underestimate their potential for bloodthirst.

* * *

 

The fourth time, he had meant to come in off’f the roof from the stables behind the Palace, but a raggedy cat casually nudged against the catch of the window, which slammed down on his fingers and sent him hurtling down off the roof.

Fortunately (or _un_ fortunately, depending on your point of view), the landing was rather… squishy.

* * *

 

The fifth time, he had had enough, and simply came in through the second floor window and did not bother with any finesse as he knocked out whatever guard came his way. Only when he arrived at the door to the Patrician’s office did he slink into the shadows, and, after having put the man waiting for an appointment to sleep, carefully waited until the time for that appointment came, and slinked through the door without a sound.

The office was empty.

Or at least he thought it was until the form of a person suddenly came together by the window just out of the corner of his eye, and a voice said, ‘Well, I don’t know. I had assumed they’d have more sense than to send the same failure more than twice. But then again they aren’t known for being clever.’

Thermopoli lashed out -

Esmeralda Weatherwax smiled -

* * *

 

Afterwards, it was decided by the Guild that it was for the best that Mister Gaiter be sent off for a relaxing vacation somewhere off in the country for a while, until he’d at least stopped twitching.

And it was also decided that, for now, it would be wisest to leave the Patrician where she was. After all, it’s hard to assassinate someone when no-one’s willing to volunteer for the job.

Two months later, the price on her head went up far enough that they stopped accepting contracts on her life.

And the Tyrant of Ankh-Morpork leaned back in her chair, and smiled.

* * *

 

[1] His parents were very proud.

[2] Even though the current Patrician was a woman, the citizens of Ankh-Morpork figured they were onto a good thing and weren’t going to change the name any time soon.

[3] Ankh-Morpork being Ankh-Morpork, people were already complaining about this and occasionally picketing on the Plaza of Broken Moons.

[4] Much like on a particular Roundworld city where the Parliament ignored four massive Cholera epidemics before finally caving to having the Thames cleaned up when the smell got so bad that Parliament couldn’t actually proceed with its other jobs[5]

[5] An incident that was promptly named ‘The Great Stink’ which tells you pretty much everything you need to know about the average human sense of humour.

[6] Although, this Tyrant being who he was, he managed to use this fact to his advantage when bringing about change in his own world.

[7] An Inhumation that would normally be considered beneath an Assassin’s dignity, but it’s amazing how a combination of irritation and money can make people change their minds.

[8] Thermopoli priced his lack of knowledge on the preparation of food, something which would later lead to much marital strife and an eventual divorce.

[9] A cocktail of all the Disc’s most venomous species of snake, lizard, plant and platypus[10] - they _really_ wanted to make sure it worked.

[10] Why?

[11] Sometimes, the ‘honour’-based rules of the Assassin’s Guild and the practicality of politics did not so much clash as gently merge.

[12] Although many Assassins grumbled that Commander Vimes seemed to have lost any respect for an old boy’s social status[13]

[13] Of course, this train of thought wrongly assumed he’d had any to begin with.


	9. This is where you stand

_Back to universal constants -_

_-did you know that there is no universe where Gytha Ogg is not the Disc’s best midwife, Witch or not? Some things just go to the very core of a person, and Nanny Ogg is by nature a Mother from the first day that she’s dragged into a room where a woman is screaming and she’s the only one not losing her head only by virtue that she’s too terrified - right until a voice somewhere inside her head tells her_ 'This  _is what you have to do.’_

_-did you know that there is no universe where Magrat Garlick, wet hen that she is, will not step up and do what needs to be done, no matter how little she thinks of herself, or how little others think of her, or whether there is the imagined spirit of an imagined Queen to guide her? Sure, she has the support of a woman who can turn_ anything _into a dirty joke and another with a stare that can nail the most deprecating arse to a wall, but in the end, it all comes down to her iron core and the voice inside that says ‘_ This  _is where you step up.’_

_\- and did you know that, somewhat anti-climatically, there is also no alternate universe where Esme Weatherwax likes children very much._

* * *

The day that Gytha rushes off to take care of a birth[1], Esme thinks nothing of it.

Well, maybe she does a _little_ bit. Not that she’d ever make it known to anyone. After all, she knows perfectly well that Lady Sybil is due any day now, and that Gytha has a nose for these things. She had completely refrained from mentioning it to the Commander, who really had enough on his mind without everyone constantly reminding him he was going to be a father.[2]

After all, they had Carcer to deal with.

So she definitely does not remove herself from her office discretely around nine that evening[3] and stroll[4] down to the cemetery of Small Gods, where she knows she will find a man who will not leave even a newborn alone to get on with living, although her intentions are uncertain. None of this happens, because no-one[5] is there to observe it.[6]

Her hands itch a little bit when she sees the trussed-up killer, and in a flash she wonders if she ought to do the hangman out of his pay for the long drop and the short stop, and help him save on rope instead. But the Patrican of a city can’t take short-cuts like that. Well, she _can_ , but she shouldn’t - that’s the whole point.

So she congratulates the Commander, and goes her way (and you must remember that none of this ever happens) and makes certain that the bastard is hung the morning after before even the most premature bells of the Ankh ring in the daylight.

* * *

 

The Patrician Tyrant of Ankh-Morpork, the most politically powerful city on the Sto Planes and perhaps the world, looks down over her desk, and stares.

'Just poke him if he's being a nuisance,' says Lady Sybil cheerfully, and the Patrician reflects that, while an excellent mother, Sybil occasionally thinks of babies and dragons in very similar terms[9]. She looks again at the toddler standing by the foot of her desk, who is smiling at her widely[10], and has just blown an enormous snot bubble.

She shakes her head to dislodge the thought[11] and turns back to Lady Sybil. ‘You were saying?’

'We're going to have to discuss Sam's scheduel,' she says, bluntly. 'He works too much.'

'Ma'am, that's entirely up to the Commander,' the Patrician replies. 'I suggest you take this up with him.'

The Lady smiles. ‘Oh, that won’t do at all. He thinks everything that needs doing needs to be done by him, and even the gods couldn’t convince him otherwise. So, as people of senior authority, I think this might need the combined effort of his wife and his boss.’

And although the Patrician agrees that there probably isn’t a more lethal combination for miles in any direction, she has a nasty feeling that both Gytha and Magrat would laugh were _she_ to throw stones at anyone who worked too much.

Seeing her lack of reaction, Sybil glances down, and says quietly. ‘He makes time. But everyone needs to be reminded, sometimes.’

And Granny Weatherwax looks down at the smiling toddler, and the thought occurs that a quite a lot of people can’t be bothered to take care of their children, but those who do should get every chance they can.

She sniffs, like a schoolteacher that has caught a pupil behaving badly. 'I'll have a word with him.'

Sybil’s face lights up. ‘Good! I’ll bring Young Sam around some other time when you are less busy!’

Once she’s left, it occurs to Esme that she’s probably been emotionally manipulated just now, but she can’t entirely get herself to mind.

* * *

 

'Hi!'

She looks down at the child again, a little less sticky, somewhat taller. ‘Go away.’

Sam Vimes Junior beams at her, something he certainly inherits from his mother, although he has inherited shade of his skin from his father. Maybe it’s all in his head, the Tyrant reflects - after all, he’s got his mother’s hair.[12] ‘I found a rat!? He says, proudly, as if this is a massive leap forward in the scientific discoveries of peoplekind.

'Hm.'

'It was all dead, though.'

'I don't care.'

'Like, all the squishy bits were gone. Mum says I can keep its bones!' A though seemed to make it to the top of his mind, before drowning in the roiling backdrop of _the world is so intrestin’!_ ‘Do you have all boney bits inside your face? Like, behind your nose and your skin and your eyes an’ all?’

She leans down, her knees snapping ominously, until she is level with his face. ‘Yes, I am all boney bits inside. Under my skin there is a skeleton that never stops grinning, and when I die I will turn to dust and the skeleton that is me will rise up and _haunt you down_ if you don’t _go away.’_ She stands up again, satisfied

He considers this for a moment. Then his smile breaks out again. ‘You’re funny! I like you!’ And in a moment of happiness, which always seems like it’s going to overwhelm him any second, he wraps his short arms around her knobbly knees and hugs her.

Gytha finds her like this, feebly trying to get him to stop, and she doesn’t let it go for _weeks_.

* * *

 

The Tyrant of Ankh and Morpork isn’t entirely certain how she became an emergency babysitter for the child apparently of the Lady Ramkin and the Commander of the Watch, but it’s happened alright, and there’s nothing she can do about it.

Of course, most times she doesn’t have to _do_ much - especially if Gytha is there, since she’s more than happy to keep the little tyke busy - Gytha’s words, not hers. And Magrat, although being the sort of person who thinks she’s good with children and really isn’t, can usually keep Young Sam out of trouble.

… And then there are days like this one, where there’s no-one in but her, and there’s a sudden, gut-wrenching _silence_ , the very devil to anyone who has ever had anything to do with children.

Certainly (because a Tyrant never does anything _un_ certainly, especially if that Tyrant is Esmeralda Weatherwax) she called out, ‘Sam Vimes?’ But the image brings his father to mind instead of a kid that smiles too much and has barely learned to read, although she’s never called him as such, so she tries again, ‘Young Sam?’

'Here!'

The reply comes from an uncomfortably elevated position for someone who is only three feet tall.

She looks up.

And Young Sam is balancing precariously on top of a cabinet that’s really far too tall for him to have gotten there in the first place, but that isn’t really the most immediate problem.

So she stands up, and reaches for the cane under the desk from when Magrat managed to twist her knee last month, and moves ever so-carefully to the cabinet. Young Sam isn’t looking very glad to be there - which is a good thing, she supposes. At least it means he has more self-preservation instincts than a lemming, although that doesn’t explain why he went up there in the first place.

'I can't get down!'

'I can see that,' she snarks, keeping his mind off the floor far, far below. 'I don't suppose you can enlighten me how you managed to get up there, or is that just another mystery for the ages?'

His eyes crinkle at the corners when she says that - he’s one of the few people who is _amused_ by her abrasiveness and not a) irritated or b) terrified. ‘I used lev‘ridge,’ he says proudly, pointing at a pile of things on the carpet - a chair on its side, a broom and a heavy case of unsorted files left there by Magrat which he had employed as a counterweight. ‘Miss Susan was telling us about it last week.’

 

'Remind me to thank her,' grated the Patrician, and righted the chair to stand atop it. Still unable to reach the child, she reached up still with the cane, and said. 'Listen carefully, or I'll tan your hide. You're going to grab a hold of this stick and not let go until I have you down, or I'll box your ears, alright?'

 

Children may be a whole host of volatile things, but mostly they aren’t really stupid, and Young Sam was a kid who knew when to listen. So he did as she said, and as carefully as she could, she lowered him down, until she could grab him in her arms, and hold him hard. So he wouldn’t fall down, of course.

 

Now shaking a little bit, the boy with the auburn curls and dark eyes mumbled into the hollow of her neck. ‘Thank you, Granny.’

 

She frowned. ‘Where did you hear that?’

 

'Nowhere, you just look like a Granny, an‘ all. And I don't have no-one else to be my granny, so you'll just have to do.'

 

'Well,' says the Patrician. 'Well.'

 

She steps down from the chair, and both agree that it’s for the best not to tell his mother any of this. The vengeance of Sybil Ramkin is a thing to be noted by small boys and city leaders alike.

 

Besides, she might not let him visit again.

* * *

 

The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork is liable to make many enemies through their incumbency as Tyrant.

So is the Commander of the Watch.

Some of them are simply thugs who don’t have the power or money or influence to do anything about their grudge other than to simmer in their own petty resentfulness indefinitely.

The rest are thugs as well - they just have the aforementioned power and money and influence to pretend otherwise.

And in the lexicon of villains, you will usually find two basic types; the ones only interested in getting at the hero themselves, and those interested in _hurting_ the hero.

The hurting part is usually delivered through the channels of those close to the hero in question.

Let us say, for an example, the existence of a child.

It’s one of those who is after the Commander this time around, and he’s already made someone have a go at Young Sam just as he was about to come home from school.[13]

So as the Patrician - no, the Tyrant - No, as _Granny_ Weatherwax walks down Quirm street, she is fully aware that in this exact moment, the boy is hidden away in his home, fronted by enough ballistic firepower and unbridled rage at the hands of his parents and also half the City Watch to decimate half the city if needed. With people like that defending him, he‘ll surely be just fine. Still, she turns the corner and comes, at last, to a halt in front of the really quite fancy office/townhouse of Lord Allan Cumberly III.

She walks past the stunned guards loitering not-at-all discretely by the entrance[14], and up the lavishly carved staircase, and into the room where a man rises up from behind his desk, first in surprise, then in affront, then in anger, then in terror.

 

_a small addition:_

_there is also no universe where Granny Weatherwax would let a child come to harm._

 

When the Watchmen not occupying Scoone Avenue arrive at the scene, they are met by some very strange accounts from bystanders.

They claim that Lord Cumberly threw himself out the window - not, in the grand scheme of things, unusual[15]. No, the unusual part was when he crawled back inside, and up the stairs, and did it again. And again. And again. And again. After which, bruised and broken and battered, he cried for someone to call the Watch, so he could confess his crimes.

No-one mentions the old woman in faded black leaving the scene shortly after the first jump. After all, if no-one _technically_ sees it, it doesn’t happen, right?

When the man confessess, Constable Ping, the arresting officer, writes these discrepancies in his report, but does not pursue them further. There’s the official, law-iron clad Justice as embodied by the Commander, and then there’s the less clear _right_ and _wrong_ championed by… Other people.

* * *

 

No-one says anything. Of course they don’t. Speaking out against a self-declared Tyrant is, in the words of the Ephebian philosopher Didactylos, about as useful as a snowball in hell.

When she happens to pass by the house on Scoone Avenue, the Commander and Lady Ramkin both catch a look of her. Sybil rushes up to her, and grabs her shoulder, hard, but doesn’t say anything. The Commander just looks at her, and nods. She understands what they mean.

And Young Sam smiles at her, so that’s all right.

* * *

 

[1] Something she doesn’t do often these days, but old habits die hard.

[2] Of course, this doesn’t mean she’s being _nice_ to him or anything. She just wants to keep his eye on business. She doesn’t do _nice._ Of course she doesn’t.

[3] Which means she completely misses her appointment with Lord Downey of the Assassin’s Guild, for which Magrat apologizes profusely but is quietly pleased because she thinks he’s a slimy little weasel at best.

[4] A wholly inappropriate word, since it gives no indication of the stealth involved in this non-excursion.

[5] With the exception of the two men involved and later the Commander’s wife, because you can’t have a healthy working marriage without telling each other the important things.

[6] The Patrician had been introduced to the tree/forest/sound conundrum some time before, and had with grim glee applied it to her personal life; if there was no-one[7] there to observe it, that obviously meant she didn’t have one, which is the safest route for any Tyrant.

[7] No-one again being a subjective concept which did not include her secretary, her best friend nor her best friend’s cat.[8]

[8] Greebo was simply impossible to leave out of anything.

[9] Although the former usually don’t explode as frequently, if you’re doing your job right.

[10] Something that she doesn’t see often.

[11] Metaphorically, at least.

[12] Presumably - it was a curly auburn, unlike the Commander’s, but no-one could really tell what Lady Ramkin’s hair had originally looked like, what with all the wigs.

[13] Since the kid’s teacher was one Miss Susan, this went about as well for the miscreant as expected.

[14] Their attempts to stop her fail immediately.

[15] Although not quite as effective as normally preferred in these circumstances, as the window was only on the second floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this ran away from me and kinda got longer than I meant it to, as usual. Oh well.
> 
> This AU works with the headcanon of IdrisElba!Vimes, which is where Young Sam's description comes from.
> 
> As apparent by the fate of Lord Cumberly, I have a very hands-on approach to those who make themselves likely to harm children.


	10. Tail of a lion, part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Wuffles the Terrier is a very polite dog, so when he is kidnapped he tries to get back to his owner, unfortunately causing an enormous amount of chaos. Even Granny hears about it.
> 
> This chapter is the first part of a response to the prompt above. I felt Wuffles needed a backstory (and that was not a sentence I expected to write today...)

_There are many stories of animals losing their owners and refusing to leave their gravesides until at last they whither down to only sinew and bones and die of malnourishment - apparently so attached to their so-called masters that they lose the will to carry on without them._

_Of course, one would assume that the master in question had to be worth the hassle - that they were someone who treated their pet with due respect and affection. Hence, when one of Verence I's  dogs[1] could be found howling day and night on the turf of his final rest, more than one person raised an eyebrow._

 

'Don't be ridiculous,' said Mistress Rocksmacker to her acquaintance witch, hammer momentarily still in one thick arm [2]. 'He beat the poor thing most times he saw it, because it wasn't big enough to fight back. Why would it ever mourn him, the bastard?'

Sally, expression dour but lit up from within by an overwhelming need to romanticize the situation, said, 'I guess love just overwhelms common sense, sometimes.'

Minty gave her a glance which was somewhat pitying, but mostly uncomprehending. 'That doesn't sound very healthy.'

The other witch, quite tall at this end of the day, shrugged. 'It's an animal, what do you expect?'

In the shadow of the forge, someone stirred, and put down a cup of remarkably floral tea. Minty's gut didn't churn, but it did itch a bit uncomfortably - her other fellow witch was someone she simply didn't know where to place in her mental order of the world. [3] He'd been perfectly civil towards her and others[4], but there was something endlessly unnerving about him that put her off. It wasn’t unusual for witches to give off the impression that they could see inside your mind, but _he_ looked as if he didn’t have to, because he had already planned for every eventuality your thoughts might bring in the world.

Vetinari put down his mug, and said 'Would you mind showing me where the dog is?

* * *

 

It only later occurred to Minty that by all logic, he should have known the way, and that made her wonder whether the ensuing spectacle was somehow a show. And if so, what its purpose was. 

They found the old king's grave on the hill covered in standing stones carved with faded declarations of the names and accomplishments of former royalty, but it would have been hard to miss. Even a mile away, they could hear the mournful, angry howls of the sort only a small but very distressed dog could make.

Right at the top of said hill, they came to the most recent monolith[5] and smack-dab in front of it was a small, trembling, white shape. Its voice was raw, Minty noticed. Well, making that level of noise would tire anyone - you had to almost admire it for keeping it up for so long.

It was also clear to her that, if it didn't stop, it wasn’t going to last much longer in the world of the living.

She didn't approach too closely. Small, vicious canines are terrifying enough when you're human sized - it only gets worse when you're less than four feet tall.

The three of them stood, in silence, and watched it a while, and after a moment, the dog gave up howling, and turned a wary eye on them, and started to growl.

Master Vetinari titled his head. 'I see.' Minty had no idea _what_ it was he saw, because she was busy being thankful that the three of them were apparently intimidating enough that the dog didn’t dare attack them. You had to appreciate the small things in life, like not being mauled by small angry canines.

Then he took a step towards it, and the growling grew louder and more menacing.

'Careful there,' murmured Sally, but she didn't approach it either.

The witch did not respond, but took the few more steps needed to reach the rumbling beast, and knelt carefully in front of it. 'I think I rather agree with my associate,' he said, and it took Minty a moment to realize he was talking about her, to the dog. Humans were weird like that. 'I don't believe you would ever mourn the man who treated you so cruelly. I do, however, think you might take a final chance to show him what you thought of him.'

He reached out a hand, and without hesitating, the dog opened its jaws to their full capacity and clamped them viciously down on the dark man's wrist, and Minty wondered if she was imagining the sound of the bones in his hand grinding together. Teeth disproportionately large to the smallness of their owner sunk into the flesh, and blood began to flow instantly. The other witches flinched in sympathy. But still they did not move.

Neither did Vetinari. He didn't even wince, and when he spoke, his voice was totally devoid of any indication of the pain he must be in. 'Mistress Cambric, Mistress Rocksmacker, since I now have it distracted, I wonder if you would mind pushing that stone over.'

'But -' And then realization dawned on Minty. 'Oh.' And as one, she and Sally stepped forward, and nudged over the hulking boulder,[6] which was taller than any one of them and wider than all three combined. It hit the ground like, well, a rock, and the dog, suddenly no longer tense, gave a whimper.

Vetinari looked at the sad mess of what was left of its tail, and said, 'I'll probably have to amputate the rest. I would greatly appreciate if you let go of my arm.' He directed this, again, at the dog, which seemed much less intimidating now that the source of its pain had been removed. It whined, and looked apologetically into the grave man's impassive face. Finally, with an upsettingly organic sound, it pulled its teeth from his arm, and hunkered down on the ground to make small, pitiful noises.

Wrist still bleeding, Vetinari picked it up, its former complainants absent, and turned to his companions. 'I've found that loyalty, when it seems unwarranted, rarely is what it seems. Few are capable enough to keep a facade so perfectly unrelated to whatever collection of selves they keep around inside to inspire anyone at all to follow them to the grave and beyond. This goes doubly for animals.'

And he was probably right, Minty decided. Or at least partly so. Because once the mutt had recovered enough to walk about, and the stub of its tail had healed, it never once left his side, and somehow responded perfectly to all his non-verbal orders[7]. Even when a guard from the palace came around to Vetinari's cabin with orders from the new king that a common witch couldn't be in the possession of a hound of the royal linage, runt or not, it simply gave him the same blank stare as its owner did.[8]

And, in all truth, the dog did something to alleviate Minty's discomfort towards her fellow witch. After all, no-one who was a _complete_ soulless bastard would name their pet 'Wuffles.' 

* * *

 

[1] A runt born of one of the hunting dog's encounter with an unknown forest dweller, who apparently had incredibly dominant genes.

[2] Minty had only recently become one of the official witches of Lancre village, and did not get along well enough just yet with the residents to consider anyone a friend.

[3] Sally, on the other hand, she had immediately pegged as one of those people utterly convinced that the world was against her and disinclined to do much about it but complain – not _just_ that, but it was not an easy characteristic to ignore.

[4] Even welcoming, if you could ever use the word for someone who looked about as bloodless as a dead fish.

[5] Brought there by a courteous local troll who happened to be passing. On the Discworld, people usually didn’t have to wonder long how the devil all these stone circles had got thousands of miles away from their natural geological origins.

[6] With remarkably little effort, should you forget they were after all, witches.

[7] Well, more like requests, really.

[8] The guard, after a short while at the end of said stare, found himself apologizing for the interruption and bowing and scraping his way out the door, and subsequently completely failing to explain _why_ when prompted by his king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case I didn't make it clear enough, Wuffles decided to piss on his bastard master's grave to get back at him but unfortunately got in the way and they accidentally dropped the gravestone on his tail without noticing.  
> Wuffle's backstory is 100% nicked from the story of the first Gaspode, as told by Gaspode the Wonder Dog, but with a happier ending.


	11. Tail of a lion, part 2

The thing people don’t quite get about dogs, is that they’re neither as smart as we think they are, nor are they as stupid as we think they are. Their inner functions are simply too different from so-called ‘sentient’ animals to be classified in such a way. And so they spend less time on pondering stuff like the past, unless is should be in the process of trying to eat them or have sex with them.

Of course, this doesn’t mean they don’t learn.

For example, Wuffles, formerly of Lancre castle and currently of Master Vetinari’s cabin, wasn’t all too fond of graveyards, and preferred to keep well away from them. Nor did he particularly like large and boisterous men in rich clothing, which meant that when the traveling players arrived in Lancre town, he immediately went and hid under the nearest pile of crates.

Unfortunately, said pile was ona cart, and that cart was bound out of the Ramptop Mountains, to gods knew where, to deliver a fresh batch of organically made cuckoo clocks to people who liked that sort of thing.

So as the small white dog curled up and went to sleep, he did not notice the bottom dropping out of his metaphorical world as the driver, mildly swazzled by the time he left[1] nudged his horses on for greener, or at least flatter, pastures.

* * *

 

The rocking of the cart was quite a restful medium in which to sleep, and it did not immediately occur to Wuffles that something was wrong, until he heard the drunken singing of the driver and smelled the very distinctly _not_ mountain air. Dogs can very easily feel stress, but mounting apprehension is an emotion that doesn’t often make an appearance.

Nevertheless, that was what he felt, just then.

Squeezing out between the boxes of 100%-cuckoo-made, awful-at-actual-timekeeping clocks, he nosed through a gap between the tarp covering the cart and the splintery wood. The land was definitely too flat to exist anywhere in Lancre, or even anywhere near the Ramptops of Copperhead. There was also a suspicious lack of darkly clad figures roaming around and organizing people’s lives for them, something Wuffles saw all the time when at home. He began to whine.

'Whuzz _arp_?’

The driver, who had been nodding off and letting the horses get on with the real work, woke up with a start and twisted around, glaring bleary-eyed at his cargo. Before Wuffles could hide away again, the man had caught a glance of him, and with surprising swiftness for someone so inebriated, picked him up by the scruff of his neck so that he was dangling in an undignified fashion from his hand.

'Hwhatrrre… youse doin’ _here_?’ The man gave him a quizzical look.

Wuffles made a face, at least as much as a dog is capable.

Then the man shrugged, and put him down on the bench next to him. 'Hwhatdd do _I_ care..?’ Then he went back to attempting to vaguely directing the horses, who were used to this and had in fact been getting him from place A to B with no outside assistance for years.

Confused, befuddled and bemused, the white dog looked up, and around, and back the way they came, and up at the drunk man again. Well. That was it. You do your best, finally find a human who is kind to you[2], eat any rats that happen to be scuttling around, carefully catalog every person likely to scratch your ears or give you a treat, avoid those likely to give you a kicking[3] and graciously ignore the rest, and this was your reward. Whisked away by unrepentant drunks to the other end of the world[5].

The drunk man shared his lunch with him - cold sausage and cheese - and Wuffles curled up on the bench and went to sleep, absolutely lost for purpose.

* * *

 

When he woke up the second time, the cart was stationary, parked next to a stone building, in a town bigger than any place he’d ever visited. He jumped off the cart, the man having gone off somewhere to do whatever people did when Wuffles wasn’t around to observe them.

He could find no scent to lead him back home, but scarpered across the town square anyway in the hope of either finding something to take him there or at least something to eat.

He was in the process of sniffing around the heap of rubbish behind the tavern when the world around him suddenly went dark, and the feel of rough sacking and wheedling voices assaulted his senses. He was rudely yanked off the ground and thrown over someone’s shoulder, and a voice said, “Ere, lucky break, doncherthink? Ain’t seen one with nice white fur like that for a while.’

'Take care it don’t bite your fingers off like that last one,’ said another voice, and cackled.

'Tha’ was just one finger, yeah? Let it go, willya. Anyway, once we box this lot up and go back to Ankh-Morpork, we’ll be set for a twomonth at least.’

'Yeah, if you don’t drink it all away like youse always does,’ said the other voice. Then, 'Ow! No need to batter me all up!’

'Put a sock in it. Just untie them horses so we can drag this lot off and exchange their pelts for some sil'er.’ The voice cackled. 'Heh. Them furriers’ll have a mighty good haul off'f this.’

It has also been observed that dogs can often understand quite a number of words, or at least connect them to something, but even though Wuffles did not actually know what was being said, he was vexed enough by being tossed around like he was to be planning on no small amount of retribution once he got out of the blasted sack. Regrettably, it was expertly tied shut and no matter how he tore at the fabric he could not get out. Nevertheless, he twisted and turned and fought like a dog possessed, which only earned him a knock against a handy nearby wall.

'Got spirit innum, don’t 'e? Heh, we’ll see how he likes being caged up with Tiger.’

There was a sudden drop and an equally sudden stop. Once he was on his feet again, his no longer young bones wobbly in the face of consistent pain, he could feel the wire-like bars of a cage cutting into his sensitive paws.

And there was…

the _smell._

Outside the feeble protection of the sack, there was a rumbling _grrrrowl_.

Something pulled at the knot, and one of the voices said, 'Heh, wouldn’t mind staying a mo’ to see Tiger turn that dandelion fuzz into goulash.’

'Get yer arse over here, we’ve got a couple more to grab and sack before we can leave. Life can’t be all fun.’

The other voice grumbled, but there was the sound of feet walking away. But that was the least of the mutt’s worries as there was that growl again, and he, at a loss for anything else to do, wriggled out of the sack.

The cat bunched up at the other end of the cage looked like the furry four-legged equivalent of an industrial accident on a major scale[6].

Wuffles decided that the smartest move in the situation would be to keep very still and look as non-threatening as possible. Not that it would do him any good on the long run.

He very nearly widdled himself when a voice, much closer to the ground than he was used to, said quietly, 'Better not provoke him, sonny jim. I’ve got my hands full getting him not to rip you to shreds as it is.’

'Oh, _you’re_ keeping Mister Shredder on the leash? What about _my_ contributions?’

'What do you want, a _rrrlk_ award? This bugger dislikes other cats bad enough, how do you think he feels about _dogs_? You’re lucky it’s Sir Snowy in that cage and not you.’

'Right, instead I’m stuck with _you_.’

The first voice gave a deep sigh, which to a human might have sounded like the rough breath of an alcoholic private investigator after decades of nicotine addiction _._ 'Two talking animals in the same bloody place. What are the _yeouwl_ odds.’

In the cage just out of the corner of Wuffles’ eye, there was another dog, so incredibly flea-ridden and diseased that it seemed to move in a cloud of its own putrescence, and next to him was a cat that was, in a manner of speaking that wouldn’t be invented on the Disc for another century,  _100% done_.

'It’s that, whatzit, narritivium. The wizards talk about it all the time,’ said the dog. 'Well, the gangly, spotty ones that don’t have beards do, anyway. Basically it means things happen because they would make a good story.’

'I’ll declaw anyone who thought _this_ would be amusing,’ muttered the cat, and then started. 'Here, one-eye, just calm the _hisssss_ down, will you?! Snowball isn’t trying to maul you, so can you not maul _him_ for a second? Just while we’re trying to get out of here, for gossakes!’

'It’s no use,’ said the dog mournfully. 'They’re both dumb as. Well. Animals. I tell you, things never used to be this complicated before I could speak.’

'Tell me about it,’ yeowled the cat, and, momentarily no longer distracted by his yammering brethren, Greebo[7] went in for the pounce, and Maurice the Amazing and Gaspode the Wonder Dog[8] made noises of protest.

But Wuffles, who had had enough of being stolen away from his home and his master[9], tossed about and beaten like he would have in his days as a pup, did not intend to put up with any more nonsense.

And so he didn’t.

You’re bound to learn a few tricks when you’re a witch’s familiar.

* * *

 

When the dust had settled, and Maurice was still picking pieces of the cage out of his fur, Gaspode sat down hard next to him and said, in quite a solid way, ’ _Well.’_

Maurice coughed. 'Still gonna call them dumb animals?’

'This has something to do with magic, doesn’t it? Like, witch magic? The kind that actually works?’

Maurice shrugged, which is quite hard to do when you’re a cat. 'Who knows. Although I did meet a witch once and he said magic is basic'ly 90% knowing things other people don’t.’

In the ruins of his cage, Wuffles sat back on his hind legs, satisfied. Greebo, who was relatively unharmed, settled for acting like he wasn’t there, since it was completely impossible that such a scrap of a thing could have done what he just did.

There was the weirdly awkward silence you could only get in the absence of properly human people, until Maurice said, 'Right! I’m guessing the lot of you want to leave as much as I do. So, since I have a few things up my slee - paw, and Mister Asthmatic here can at least distract well enough,  _here is what we’ll do…_ ’

* * *

 

The two furriers never found out how or why they were suddenly knocked unconscious in the night, or why their cart was completely empty once they woke up, the cages utterly demolished and their cargo gone.

One of them, if pressed, might admit to hearing, just before everything went dark, 'Hello, guv, got some bacon? No? Well, no harm in checking, is there? Okay, you can drop the lanterns now.’

* * *

 

'I recognize your smell, you know.’

’ _Wuff_?

'Wouldn’t have pegged the guy as a dog person, but you can never tell.’

’ _Whine_.’

'I mean, it’s not like I _owe_ him or anything. Hah! That’s… that’s not how I work, understand.’

’ _Wrrr.’_

_’_ But… You know. It was impressive, you know, how you faced that gremlin. Might nudge you in the right direction, so to speak. You don’t smell unloved.’

And the reply was simple. ’ _Woof._ ’

* * *

 

'Say, where’s the dog? I haven’t seen him around, lately.’ Minty Rocksmacker put down a mug of tea so strong it would probably stay in place for a moment if you turned the mug over. And she watched her fellow witch carefully, because the dog _had_ been gone for long, but Vetinari never brought it up and didn’t seem overly distressed by its disappearance. But then again, he never seemed anything at all unless there was some benefit to seeming.

And the dusty-dressed man picked up his mug. 'I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner than later.’

Yes, thought Minty. It sounded less like a prediction or a vague hope and more like an instruction to the universe to take note.

* * *

 

’ _Thirteen_ carriages?’ The Patrician, face like a burned omelet at best and a forest fire at worst continued to look perfectly dissatisfied by these happenstances.

Commander Vimes saluted in self-defense. 'Yes, ma'am. All the way from  Sto Lat to Copperhead. All of them disappeared in the night and turned up at the next town over only for one _there_ to go missing instead. Residents also noted numerous thefts of bacon, chickens, prime beef, fish and some money, but nothing that couldn’t be easily carried.’

'What by?’ Speculated the Patrician out loud, obstinately refusing to 'clean up’ her language as suggested by the Head of the Cultural Committee as 'fitted’ the tyrant of such a refined city as Ankh and Morpork[10]. The Commander gave a non-committal shrug, and the Patrician’s secretary said, 'Do you wish for this to be looked into, ma'am?’

'No reason to,’ said the Tyrant. 'It’s just annoying, not any kind of threat.’ The tone of her voice suggested that this alone might have made her look into it non the less. 'Although I might get Gytha to do something about it. At least she’d stop fretting about that damn cat.’

'Actually, Greebo returned yesterday,’ said Magrat.

'What? Why isn’t she back, then?’

The secretary pushed up her glasses and peered down at her clipboard. 'It, um, seems that she got distracted by a football match between Lobbin Cloud and the Dolly Sisters on her way to the Palace.’

The Patrician grunted. 'Typical. No reason to pay attention to this not so permanent theft, then.’

'Yes ma'am,’ said the Commander, who couldn’t find a reason to disagree, which aggravated him. He didn’t have to wait long for something to argue.’

'Did you manage to dredge up the river boat? Again?’

'We _did_ , thank you for asking. However, the boat used to pull it to the surface sunk about twenty minutes after.’

'I _told_ you to hire craftsmen that wouldn’t try to filch you off!’

'I can only do that if you give us the necessary funds!’

Magrat rubbed the bridge of her nose, and resisted the urge to cover her ears with her clipboard as the overtures of yet another shouting match began to escalate in the foreground.

* * *

 

By the bridge over Lancre gorge, Big Jim Beef the troll was having a disappointing breakfast of shale and charcoal when there was the sound of someone clearing their throat even closer to the ground than he usually had to glare when confronted by the squishy humans or the bouncy dwarfs. 'Down here, big guy.’

Big Jim Beef looked down. 'You’re a cat.’

'That’s right.’

Big Jim Beef thought about this, then shrugged. For all he knew, cats talked all the time, just not to him. 'What'ya want?’

'See this dog?’

'Yeah?’

'I need you to take it to Lancre village.’

'Oh yeah? Why should I?’

'It’ll give you a lovely warm feeling doing someone a favour?’ Hazarded Maurice. The troll, once it had processed the conversation, gave him a blank look. This was already it’s default expression, but the message was clear.

Maurice gave up on being nice. 'Look, you know witches?’

The troll shivered, and, being made entirely of rock, the effect was something like a small and extremely localized earthquake. 'Oh, yeah.’

'Well, this snowball belongs to one.’

They both looked down at Wuffles.

* * *

 

In the forge, the intricate[11] cuckoo clock on the wall warbled three times, and Vetinari put down his mug. 'As I said.’

Minty carefully put down her hammer. The sentence had had the intent undertones of the sort that indicated you might not want to be operating heavy things in its vicinity. 'Hm?’

'He’ll be arriving just about now.’

She was about to ask how he knew, when she noticed that the kettle was rattling on the stove, and so were the two mugs and indeed most of what was not nailed down. 'Ah,’ she said instead.

When they got outside, there was an enormous troll blocking the view of the scenery. He peered down at the with gimlet eyes, carefully not looking too long at Minty, just as she did not pay too much attention to him[12]. 'Package here for Master Vetinari,’ the troll rumbled after a moment of marshaling its thoughts.

'Thank you, Mister Big Jim, for taking the trouble.’

'And a mess'ge from some guy… Maurice, I think. He says to tell you that it’s debts repaid, now.’

'I’m sure I don’t know what he means,’ said Vetinari. 'Now, if you wouldn’t mind.’

'Oh, right.’ And the troll brought down one enormous fist until it was level to the ground, and his passenger could jump off safely. The dog and the witch met each other half-way, calmly, as if they had just parted a moment ago, and with none of those over-dramatic tearful greetings Minty had learned to expect from humans and was relieved didn’t occur there and then. They simply nodded at each other, as if something had been a little bit off in the grand scheme of things, but that balance had been restored, so that was all right.

And then they walked home, and she reflected that really, sometimes less was more, in the circumstances.

* * *

 

Somewhere else, a dog and a cat met on a street corner, both trying to broadcast to each other the impression that this was completely by accident  and not in any way planned nor anticipated.

'How did the mysterious dept paying go?’

'What dept-paying?’

'Right.’

Maurice sagged. 'I just don’t like having to possibly face the prospect of that freaky scarecrow coming to collect, okay? Give an inch, and maybe he won’t take a mile.’

Gaspode shrugged. 'Well, you know. Better be the head of a dog than the tail of a lion. Or something.’

Maurice squinted. ’… What?’

'You know, be humble, or some tosh like that humans keep making up.‘

Maurice thought about this. ‚…No. No. That makes absolutely no sense what-so-ever.’

'Want to go fleece some bugger down to his last penny?’

'Way ahead of you.’

* * *

 

[1] Few were able to face the depressing prospect of theater completely sober.

[2] Kindness being much easier to quantify than love.

[3] Although anyone stupid enough to assault a witch’s familiar[4] would be suicidal enough to be dead.

[4] The name didn’t really make them any different from the average pet, excluding the tendency for them to, once making aquintance with said witch, develop a 120% self-confidence rating.

[5] Not nearly so far in real terms, but the world looks a whole lot bigger when you’re that small.

[6] Or, in dog terms, a nasty, rabid bugger you would not want to cross, much less share a cage with.

[7] Who else could it be?

[8] Ditto.

[9] From his point of view, it was more of an equal partnership, really, when he was feeling gracious.

[10] It was anyone’s guess how he managed to say that last part with a straight face.

[11] Dwarf-made, and thus on time.

[12] Mortal enemies or not, it’s just so much _effort_ to be in a constant state of feuding with people when you could be doing something else instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally uploaded this, after being under the mistaken impression that I already had. Enjoy.


	12. Taking Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Matrician makes a visit to one Miss Sugarbean.

               The first time Glenda Sugarbean meets the Matrician of Ankh Morpork, it is at her grandmother‘s wake.

               She had hung on a year or so longer than her mother, until the ague claimed her, too. Or at least that was what the local doctor in Dolly Sisters said, and since he‘s been known to drink paint thinner, Glenda took it with a heap of salt. And because she knew the real underlying reason was, there was nothing left of them. They had given until they had nothing more to give, and never got anything in return. She could recall all too well how worn to the bone their fingers had been, and the sunken look of the eyes.

               And now she holds a second wake. And because her grandmother would come back to hunt her if people ever thought she could not properly feed the guests, there are ham rolls and jacket potatoes and, yes, pies, to go around almost twice over. Not that she would ever let a guest of any sort go without at least a cup of tea and a slice. It‘s something that has gotten her into trouble a few times with Mrs. Whitlow, and out of said trouble twice over, because no-one wants to antagonize a good cook.  

               They‘re running low on drinks, so she sends Juliet to get some from her grandmother‘s pantry – from _her_ pantry, and knows to anticipate that it‘ll take a while. But she cannot find it in herself to feel annoyed. Juliet had been helpful, in her way, when taking care of both her mother and grandmother. Often it had just been staying up with them and chatting while Glenda had to go out, but that in itself was enough. The remarkable thing was that she‘d never asked her to. She just did.

               So now she strode around the house, making sure everyone had enough on their plate ***** and generally Being Seen, which she knew was as important as the actual wake. So it was in fact her who was first to see the tall, white-haired woman in the shabby black dress, and her cheerful companion with the sparkling teeth ****** come through the door. And it was through a herculean effort of will that she managed to keep her face straight when she went to meet them, curtsying.

               ‘Madame Matrician, to what do we owe your visit?’

               ‘Hm, got it right in one,’ said the short lady next to the most powerful and feared woman in Ankh-Morpork. ‘Most people go with ‘patrician’ right out of the gate.’

               Matrician Weatherwax apparently ignored this, but Glenda could tell by the slightest tilt of her head that it had registered. ‘We came to pay our respects to Augusta Sugarbean,’ she said. ‘Your grandmother, wasn’t she?’

               Glenda could not help staring. ‘Yes, your ladyship.’ She had heard the stories, of course she had. Both Augusta and Esmeralda Weatherwax had been busybodies who made everyone else’s business their own, and had as a result clashed constantly. The only reason there wasn’t a still-smoking crater somewhere in downtown Morpork was that their neighbourhoods were as far away from each other was geographically possibly while still being in the same city.

               But Lady Weathewax had been ruler of the city for more than a decade by now, and had moved up almost horizontally in the social order since the days when she’d used to be icily polite at Augusta whenever they passed each other in the street.

               ‘What a firebrand, she was!’ Said the woman Glenda knew to be Madame Gytha Ogg, right-hand woman to the Matrician, best-informed person in the city and fearsome matriarch to the sprawling Ogg clan. She was already helping herself to some pickles. ‘I used to say that if anyone could have got Esme to change her mind about, well, _anything_ , it might’ve been her. Pillar of the community, too.’ Behind her, Glenda’s neighbours were frozen still at this unlikely event, similar rictus looks on each of their faces.

               ‘A salt pillar, then,’ said the Matrician sharply. Glenda bristled, even though she could tell that it was the kind of comment made by one rival about another. This was a wake, and there was no call for any of that. But before she could explode at them,*** Lady Weatherwax continued, ‘And she will have left a gap.’

               ‘Which someone will have to fill,’ said Madame Ogg, seemingly to the ham rolls.

               This threw her off completely. ‘What?’

               ‘Your grandmother did all sorts of things to help all sorts of people,’ said Madame Ogg. ‘Because someone had to. And now there’s no-one to do them.’

               Glenda thought of worn-down hands and bony faces. ‘You’re saying _I_ should –‘

               ‘What we are here _for_ ,’ said the Matrician. ‘Is to pay our respects. Which we have now done, and will intrude no further on your time. Come, Gytha.’

               The apple-shaped woman made a noise of disappointment, but with startling speed all of the food she had piled on her plate disappeared somewhere about her person, and she gave a cheery little wave to Glenda. ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Glenda. Be seein’ ya.’

               And then they were gone.

               Glenda barely hesitated before she ran through the house, back to the kitchen, where she leaned on the table and wheezed in the realization that she had just had the most dangerous conversation in her life. And because of the thoughts crowding her head.

                _Me? Take on the responsibility of all of Dolly Sisters? I can’t do that! And do I even want to? Do I even want to end up as the busybody to half a town at twenty and dead of exhaustion by fifty-five? They can’t just_ make _me!_

Then she thought, _Isn’t that what_ she _has been doing? Only meddling with an entire city at that?_

‘Glendy? Are you alright?’

               She straightened up, and pushed the thoughts away. ‘I’m fine, Jules. Come on, we have a wake to run.’

               There was a job that needed doing, and so she would do it. But she did remember thinking, _yeah, right_. What remote chance did she have at ever meeting the Matrician again?

—

*Figuritively and literally – she knew her neighbours enough to know that if they had too much time to spare, they‘d wander around and find something to gossip about, be it the state of the paint on the walls or the cloudy old glass of the windows.

**Which were, in fact, made of porcelain. 

***And doom herself to whatever horrible torture the Matrician had at her disposal.


End file.
